The Dying of the Light

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘What is it?’ cried Rosemary, hurrying over to her friend. ‘What’s happened, Dot?’

  Dorothy stopped just inside the door, pale and trembling.

  ‘I… I saw…’

  Rosemary took her arm.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  Dorothy burst into tears.

  ‘Oh Rose,’ she sobbed, ‘there was blood everywhere! His clothes ripped to shreds and great gashes all over his face and hands!’

  She shivered.

  ‘God knows what they can have done to him, poor man.’

  To whom?’ asked Rosemary.

  Dorothy looked at her friend dully.

  ‘George Channing,’ she said. The corned beef millionaire.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘And what do you make of this interesting development?’

  The two friends were sitting side by side in their usual places. Dorothy’s hands and lips were still quivering and her eyes sightlessly scanned the opaque screen of the window. The other residents, exhausted by their recent outbursts, had resumed their stupor.

  ‘I suppose it was something we should really have foreseen,’ Rosemary went on. ‘Nothing is more usual, after all, than for the principal suspect to become the next victim. Indeed, my reluctance to consider such an eventuality was perhaps at least partly due to a feeling that the device had become rather hackneyed.’

  Dorothy gave a convulsive sob. She reached out and took her friend’s hand.

  ‘He’s dead, Rose.’

  They’re all dead,’ Rosemary returned briskly. ‘We shouldn’t have any victims otherwise.’

  Dorothy shook her head violently.

  ‘This is different, Rose. This is serious. They really killed him!’

  Rosemary raised her eyebrows.

  ‘”They”, Dot? Do you think there’s more than one person involved, then?’

  ‘You know who I mean! They were carrying him in when I crossed the hallway. There was blood everywhere, his face was scarcely recognisable. It looked as though he’d been ripped apart by some…’

  Rosemary withdrew her hand with a genteel shudder.

  ‘There’s no need to descend to vulgar melodrama, Dorothy, even if…’

  She broke off abruptly.

  ‘Oh Dot!’ she laughed. ‘You are clever!’

  Dorothy stared at her blankly.

  ‘You completely took me in!’ Rosemary went on admiringly. ‘It’s the classic technique, disguising the essential clue in a passage of gory sensationalism, and I almost fell for it. “His face was scarcely recognisable.” Of course! That’s the solution!’

  Picking up the shapeless mass of frayed yarn which Dorothy had unravelled, she started to wind it rapidly into a neat ball.

  ‘We’ve established that Randolph Fitzpayne assumed the identity of George Channing in order to do away with Hilary Bryant. Now that has been achieved, he needs to cover his tracks so that he and Lady Belinda Scott can elope to their villa in Amalfi…’

  ‘Antibes.’

  Rosemary nodded and smiled.

  ‘Beg pardon. Dot, you’re quite right. In Antibes. And how better to ensure that his crime is not brought home to him than by killing off George Channing? The police can’t arrest a dead man-especially one who never existed in the first place!’

  She handed the completed ball of wool to her friend.

  ‘But if it wasn’t Channing I saw, then who was it?’ Dorothy protested feebly. ‘There isn’t anyone else.’

  ‘There isn’t anyone else to be the murderer either,’ Rosemary pointed out.

  ‘What about Mr Anderson and Miss Davis? I saw them carrying the body upstairs between them, like a sack of coal!’

  Rosemary gave her a withering look.

  ‘Well, of course! That’s what staff are for, isn’t it? Fetching and carrying and suchlike tasks may safely be entrusted to them, but never murder. That’s an absolutely fundamental principle. Otherwise what possible interest could the solution have, for heaven’s sake? Being killed by a servant is a fate of no more interest than being run over by a tram. No, no, the murderer must be someone like us, someone who matters.’

  Dorothy threaded the wool on to her needles again and began to form the first stitches.

  ‘Yes, but there isn’t anyone else,’ she repeated. ‘Don’t you remember? We were all gathered here in the lounge.’

  ‘All except you,’ murmured Rosemary.

  Dorothy’s hands became still.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am merely pointing out that you are the only one who doesn’t have an alibi,’ Rosemary replied. ‘You left the lounge under the pretext of going to powder your nose shortly before the attack occurred, and returned immediately afterwards to stage an extremely convincing display of hysteria.’

  Dorothy laughed and resumed her knitting.

  ‘Oh rubbish! What possible motive could I have?’

  ‘One can always invent a motive,’ Rosemary sniffed.

  ‘You might be the sultry Latin temptress with whose affections Channing, alias Randolph Fitzpayne, trifled in the course of his sojourn in Patagonia and who subsequently followed him to England intent on exacting revenge.’

  Dorothy glared at her.

  ‘Honestly, Rose! Do I look like a dago?’

  The door was opened by a lanky man in his mid-forties wearing a blue blazer and white flannel trousers. His long florid face rose to a mat of slicked hair which had receded to the centre of his skull. Holding the door ajar, he wheeled in a metal trolley supporting a large teapot and a pile of cups and saucers.

  ‘Good afternoon, campers!’ he called jovially.

  There was a scattered muttering of ‘Good afternoon, Mr Anderson.’

  The man picked up a cut-glass tumbler from the trolley and took a leisurely gulp of the amber liquid it contained.

  ‘And how are we this afternoon, Mavis?’ he asked Mrs Hargreaves, who beamed back.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Mr A! This old heart will see me out.’

  ‘I dare say it will, Mavis. I dare say it will. Although not I trust before you’ve taken the opportunity to attend to the little matter we discussed the other day.’

  He gave Mrs Hargreaves a broad wink.

  ‘I’m giving it a piece of my mind, Mr A,’ she replied.

  ‘While the rest of that picturesque organ pursues the more abstruse ramifications of unified field theory, no doubt.’

  Mrs Hargreaves gave him an arch look.

  ‘Rome wasn’t built yesterday,’ she said.

  Anderson took another gulp of his drink.

  ‘True. I would none the less draw your attention to the equally well-attested facts that man-or, in your case, woman-does not live by bread alone, and that there is no time like the present. Incidentally it may interest you to know that another of our number has recently taken the pledge, I mean plunge. Unfortunately I’m not at liberty to reveal her name, or indeed sex…’

  Mrs Hargreaves giggled.

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘”Sex”, Mavis. What people have in at least one sense and occasionally two, although not for some considerable time in my case and yours too I should imagine, but don’t get any ideas. As I was saying, the benefactor asked to remain anonymous for reasons which I am of course bound to respect, although I confess myself unable to fathom them.’

  He drained his glass.

  ‘No, on second thoughts, fuck it. It was Mrs Davenport.’

  Rosemary was unable to stifle a gasp. Anderson walked over and placed his hand on Dorothy’s head.

  ‘We’re all one big happy family here, so I can’t see any need to make a big secret of the fact that dear Dorothy asked to see a man of law last week with regard to changing her sex, I mean will. The details naturally remain sub rosa not to mention in petto, but I can reveal that Letty had to go and round up a couple of villagers to act as witnesses since she and I were ineligible. Make of that what you will!’

  Leaving Rosemary staring in shock at
her friend, Anderson wandered back to Mrs Hargreaves. He picked up one of the postcards laid out in rows on the blankets.

  ‘We really should see about getting you a proper pack of cards, Mavis. No reason why you shouldn’t be playing with a full deck in one sense at least, eh?’

  He swept his arm around in an inclusive gesture.

  ‘I don’t suppose a television would go amiss either, to say nothing of a more varied diet. My sister’s cooking can hardly be described as anything more than adequate at best, but I seem to remember that you had Irish stew and tapioca pudding ten days in a row recently, which probably constitutes some sort of human rights violation.’

  He sighed deeply and shook his head.

  ‘Given the necessary funds, there’s really no limit to what one might do in the way of superior amenities and improved living conditions. But although Mrs Davenport is to be congratulated on doing the decent thing in leaving her money to benefit our little community rather than the hordes of ungrateful relatives who can’t even be bothered to send her the odd ‘wish-you-were-‘ here from Torbay never mind come to visit, I was unfortunately unable to persuade her to come across here and now, up-front, in real time. Result, we can’t cash in till she stiffs out.’

  He shook his head sadly.

  ‘How ironic that the decease of our benefactor and dearly beloved companion should thus become, to some extent at least, a consummation devoutly to be wished! How much more fitting, how infinitely more desirable all round, if the cash were to be made available in the form of a long-term, unsecured, interest-free loan, no strings attached, no questions asked!’

  He swung round’ on Mrs Hargreaves, arms outspread in dramatic appeal.

  ‘What do you say, Mavis? Yes or no? What’s it to be? Give us your answer, do!’

  Mrs Hargreaves simpered.

  ‘I believe in burning my boats when I come to them, Mr A.’

  Anderson sighed deeply.

  ‘Very well.’

  He looked around, taking them in one by one.

  ‘But I must warn you-all of you-that unless someone comes across with a sizeable injection of the ready in the very near future, then you will all be facing privation on a hitherto unimaginable scale. There is simply no telling what measures I may be obliged to resort to in my desperate attempts to make ends meet. Certainly this latest tragedy could have been avoided if we’d been able to retain the services of extra staff.’

  He pointed at Dorothy.

  ‘I take it you’ve told them about Channing?’

  ‘Blood!’ cried Belinda Scott. ‘She said there was blood everywhere!’

  Anderson nodded brightly.

  ‘There was a certain amount in evidence, I must admit. In point of fact the togs I was wearing at the time got fairly comprehensively besmirched-hence the present nifty outfit with its subtle overtones of naphthalene.’

  He upended the glass and let the final drop roll into his open mouth.

  ‘Fortunately the damage seems to be considerably less serious than we first feared,’ he went on. ‘Letty applied first aid immediately, and with any luck the effects will hardly be noticeable once the garments in question have been to the cleaners.’

  He sighed deeply.

  ‘Channing, on the other hand, resembles the proverbial dog’s dinner-as is only to be expected under the circumstances. We’re expecting Dr Morel any moment with the results of Mrs Davenport’s tests. He should be able to give George a shot to put him out of his misery.’

  He shook his head sadly.

  ‘Never try and outrun a Dobermann. It awakens their atavistic instinct to mutilate prey.’

  There was the sound of a car drawing up outside.

  ‘Ah, I expect that’ll be Jim now,’ Anderson remarked.

  He gave Dorothy a sympathetic smile.

  ‘You’ll naturally be anxious to learn your fate as soon as possible, Mrs Davenport. Is the cancer rampaging through your body like a forest fire out of control, sweeping all before it, or is it at present confined to a specific organ or member which might conveniently be gouged out or lopped off? That’s the question we’re all asking ourselves, and I’ll let you know the answer just as soon as Jim’s patched up old Channers. Meanwhile do help yourselves to tea. For your own sake, I would strongly advise you to try and avoid making too much mess. Judging by what I found floating in the loo this morning it’s Letitia’s time of the month, and you know how touchy she can get, particularly after a stressful day like this. Bye-eee!’

  With a cheery salute, Anderson walked out. One by one, the residents got up from their chairs and formed a silent huddle around the tea trolley, where Belinda Scott took possession of the pot.

  ‘Right!’ she barked. ‘From the front, in alphabetical order! Ayres?’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Isn’t he dead?’ muttered Grace Lebon eventually.

  ‘Miss Scott to you!’ rapped Belinda.

  Leaving Dorothy slumped in her chair, her head tilted to one side as though to hear better, Rosemary walked over to the trolley.

  ‘Roland and Hilary are both dead,’ she said. ‘Mr Channing is confined to his room, so Dorothy is next. As she’s feeling poorly, I’ll take it to her.’

  ‘No you won’t!’ snapped Belinda Scott. ‘You’ll bloody well wait your turn like everyone else.’

  She started to fill the thick, chipped cups with tea, adding a splash of milk to each and placing a sachet of sugar in the saucer. When her own turn finally came, Rosemary took a cup for herself and one for Dorothy and walked back to where her friend sat staring down at the faded floral design of the red linoleum.

  Rosemary broke open the paper sachets and poured the contents into the grey liquid, its surface filmy with whorls of grease.

  ‘This would be a good way to kill someone,’ she murmured.

  The silence was broken only by the clink of crockery and the sound of Mr Purvey sucking tea through his dentures.

  ‘How many is it now?’ Dorothy asked suddenly.

  Rosemary gave her a cautious glance.

  ‘How many what?’

  ‘And no one ever investigates, do they?’ Dorothy went on. ‘After all, it’s the most natural thing in the world for old people to die.’

  Rosemary sipped her tea.

  ‘It’s not a question of common or garden death,’ she remarked dismissively. “It’s a question of murder.’

  Dorothy gave a wan smile.

  ‘Oh well, that’s different, of course.’

  Rosemary picked up one of the empty sachets.

  ‘All the killer would need to do is steam one of these open carefully, so as not to tear the paper. Then he…’

  She paused, eyeing her friend expectantly.

  ‘Or she,’ Dorothy murmured at length.

  Rosemary nodded.

  ‘…would refill the sachet with poison…’

  ‘…from the potting shed in the kitchen garden…’

  ‘…where everyone has been at some time or another…’

  ‘.. on some more or less feeble pretext,’ concluded Dorothy. ‘Yes, but how would you make sure that the intended victim was given the poisoned sachet?’

  Rosemary frowned.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Dorothy sipped her tea.

  ‘Cocoa would be better,’ she said.

  ‘But that’s already sugared,’ objected Rosemary.

  Dorothy’s needles clacked assiduously.

  ‘Yes, but it tastes so strong that you could add poison without the victim noticing.’

  Rosemary shook her head.

  ‘You’ve still got the same problem, Dot. The mugs of cocoa are just left out on a tray in the hall. There’s no way of making sure that the poison reaches the right person.’

  Dorothy set down her knitting. She cradled the tea cup in her hands, as though to warm them.

  ‘I always take the blue one. Most people use the same mug every night. Yours is the brown one with the broken handl
e glued back on. Charles likes the dark green one, while Grace prefers the pale pink. Weatherby always uses that hideous coronation mug, and Mrs Hargreaves…’

  ‘You haven’t really changed your will, have you Dot?’ Rosemary interrupted.

  Dorothy picked up her knitting without answering. Rosemary looked at her friend with a preoccupied expression.

  ‘It’s none of my business, of course,’ she went on, ‘but I must say that I would personally consider it most unwise to put any faith in promises which may have been made in a certain quarter. I shouldn’t think there’s the slightest chance of their being honoured.’

  Dorothy clutched her chest and moaned.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Rosemary in alarm.

  ‘I’m all right. Only would you be an angel and fetch my medicine? What with one thing and another I never did manage to get upstairs, and now it’s started to hurt quite badly.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Rosemary, springing to her feet.

  Dorothy tried a smile which did not quite come off.

  ‘Could you possibly spare that thick cardie of yours? I feel the cold so now that winter’s here.’

  ‘Of course you can. Although it’s only September, you know. Or October at the latest.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Dorothy returned in an oddly muted voice. ‘You can’t change anything with words, Rose. I’m cold.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Rosemary made her way along the corridor which wound about the first floor of the building, connecting the various bedrooms. Most of the doors were either closed or slightly ajar, but at length a further bend in the passage revealed one which lay wide open. The room inside looked as though it had been prepared for a guest who had not yet arrived. The furniture was the same as in all the other bedrooms: a sturdy metal-framed single bed with a cabinet beside it, a chest of drawers, a large wardrobe and a hard armchair.

  Everything was in its place, corners aligned and not a speck of dust to be seen. The bed was perfectly made, the corners of the covers turned down as though in readiness for the intended occupant. On top of the chest of drawers the various paraphernalia which Mr Purvey needed to keep his diabetes under control were arranged in a precise geometric pattern. Although he had been a resident for several years, Purvey still acted as though he were an uninvited guest who had long outstayed his welcome. Perhaps because of this, he kept his room irreproachably clean and tidy and always left the door open, to indicate that he was not claiming any rights of privacy, still less possession.